Page 65 of The Lord Meets His Lady

“Shh,” he hushed, his body pressing into Genevieve’s backside.

Lord Bowles reached around and placed his warm hand over hers on the brush. Long masculine fingers slid between her fingers and gripped the brush with her. She was spellbound. Currents pulsed through her veins, sparking her skin. Arms touching as one, they smoothed the brush over the filly’s back.

“Gentling a horse requires patience,” he murmured against her ear. “Lending an ear to hear what she has to say.”

Her lashes hovered low. Was he speaking of her? She drank in the intimacy of simply being with Lord Bowles, her backside molding to him. His placket’s buttons nudged her bottom. Up and down their strokes went on the little horse. Lord Bowles took the lead. Their joined hands skimmed the horse, neck to chest, the movement fluid.

“You’ve said that before. That horses talk.”

“Same as people.” His breath was warm on her neck. “You have to pay attention as much to what’s said as not said.”

Her bottom pressed into his groin, and his breath hitching was her reward for the small, saucy push.

“You mean the way our bodies move?”

His free hand rubbed her hip. “Movement, habits, everything.”

His mouth pressed into the back of her hair, smelling her. She’d used plain soap. Would he like her smell?

Gentle fingers slid over her hip to her belly. “Keep your movements slow and careful if you want to calm skittish fillies. They can’t know what you’re doing. Arms waving high or frantic movements make them nervous.”

Her other hand covered his resting on her gown’s front laces. “Hands must go higher at some point.”

“Eventually.” His low, raspy laughter tickled her neck. “Trust needs to come first.”

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.” He feathered a kiss on her shoulder where cloth ended and her skin began.

“Just curious.”

“This phase can take a long time,” he said, his mouth on her skin. “Patience is of the essence.”

She shivered and tipped her face to the timbered ceiling. The dimly lit barn could be heaven. Mud caked her hem, but the flat aroma of oats and a good man at her back thrilled her. His hand fell away from under hers. She mewled her disappointment until he touched her unbound hair.

“Why do you always wear your hair down?”

Her scalp tingled. Lord Bowles was stroking her hair. “Is that part of your tutorial on horses, milord?”

“A small question to feed my curiosity,” he said, fingering a lock.

“I hate hairpins.”

He brushed her hair back from her other shoulder and planted a kiss on bare skin. “What do you have against pins?”

“They…hurt.” Genevieve breathed the words more than said them. She bent her head, giving him more of her neck. Their joined hands halted on the horse’s withers. Spangles of desire and contentment spread warmly through her body.

“And combs? They do the same?”

“I comb my hair once a day. It’s mostly the weight that bothers me. My hair pinned up gives me a headache.”

His hand found her rib cage. Masculine fingers spread over her gown’s front lacing again. He kissed her neck, openmouthed kisses, tender and warm. Each touch of his lips was a message.

Lord Bowles was gentling her. Healing her.

He pleasured her skin with his mouth, winning her body and, she feared, her heart. This was more than naked lust. Yearning bloomed inside for this man, to care for him and be cared for by him, a novel thing indeed. The horses, the cottage, and Lord Bowles entwined her daily life. London was becoming a hazy memory.

Teeth nipping her lower lip, she clutched her skirt, ready to turn around. Lord Bowles kept her backside firmly pressed against the fall of his breeches. He kissed her ear, and she hoped desperately his mouth would go lower. With each hard breath, her breasts pushed against her bodice. She was ready to untie the laces, but Lord Bowles inched back, his hand rummaging in his breeches pocket.